Psychosis
by Evie McFarland
Summary: Reid suffers a psychotic break. It doesn't end well for anyone.
1. Chapter 1

_*This is another Reid-gets-schizophrenia fan fiction; it's like the first one that I wrote, except Reid becomes much more violent and the repercussions are far more severe. I finally figured out how to submit chapters one by one, being the technical genius that I am (not.) So I plan to continue this and finish it. There will be some language and a lot of violence. Possible character(s) death(s), read at your own risk. And I know everyone says this, but I really like people who review…*_

**Psychosis**

JJ sighed, once again pounding louder on apartment 205; she shifted her weight, trying to get a better grip on Henry, before knocking again.

"Reid!" She shouted. "Open the door!"

Typically, her friend didn't hear her. She gritted her teeth and set the toddler down on the floor. He was getting heavy. "Stay here, Henry," she commanded, and began digging in her purse, searching for her phone.

The door swung open suddenly. JJ let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, hi, Reid," she said, reaching down for Henry; her son had begun to meander off down the hallway.

Reid looked confused. "What're you doing here?" he asked JJ. She paused.

"You said you'd watch Henry," she reminded him.

"Did I?" he muttered. "Okay, then."

She froze. "You forgot?" Reid had never forgotten anything before, as far as she could remember.

"No, I remember now," Reid answered. "Come on in."

Hesitantly, JJ lifted Henry up off the floor and walked into the apartment. Once she had stepped in, she froze.

Reid's apartment had changed drastically since the last time she had seen it; mostly due to the fact that there were numbers and equations scribbled all over every available wall. The equations not only had numbers and letters, but exclamation points, graphs, charts, pyramids, and, from the looks of it, quotations from several different existential philosophers.

_My thought is me; that is why I cannot stop thinking. __(x+y)^n = (x + y)^(n-2)Q+(x+y)^(n-3)P. And so, I exist because I cannot keep myself from thinking. 5! = (x-789)(6!-x!-12!) ~Jean Paul Sartre_

"Math!" Henry exclaimed, and struggled to free himself from JJ's grip.

"Um, Reid?" JJ asked, while trying to restrain Henry.

"Yes?"

"What's all this…stuff all over the walls?" Finally, she gave up and put Henry onto the floor. The boy squealed and ran over to his godfather, grabbing his knees.

"I'm working on something," Reid said shortly.

"Oh," she said, then paused. For some reason, she was beginning to have doubts about leaving Henry with Reid.

"Are you staying?" Reid asked, when she didn't move. "I thought you and Will were going to see a movie." He lifted Henry up and carried him over to the sofa, balancing him on his knee.

"No…no, I'm meeting him right now," JJ said quickly. She was already a little late. "I'll be back in a few hours. Bye, Henry!" She moved forward and gave her son a quick kiss on the forehead. "Bye, Spence. Call me if you need anything."

Reid nodded vaguely.

JJ closed the door, feeling doubtful. She supposed that it _was _a bit unusual to write out mathematical equations and philosophical quotes all over your walls; but then again, Reid had always been a bit unusual. She had trusted Henry with him many times before. Pushing the doubts to the back of her mind, she started down the hallway.

The movie had been fun, despite Will getting bored every few minutes and wanting to make out in the back of the theater. She had frequently explained to him that that was _not_ how responsible parents were supposed to behave; Will had replied that they _weren't _responsible parents; at least, not for the night.

"Reid, it's me!" JJ called out. It seemed like he wasn't alone in his apartment; she could hear his voice, as if he were talking to someone. In fact, it sounded like he was having a heated discussion. She frowned at Will as his voice got louder and louder.

"I solved it. You said that if I solved it, you would go away." There was a brief moment of silence, followed by a loud thud. There was some whispering, another thud, and then a scream.

"Spencer?" JJ called, her breathing quickening.

"Look what you've done! YOU SON OF A BITCH. LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!" The voice was so contorted with rage almost didn't sound like Spencer.

"Spence, is everything okay?" JJ shouted, pounding on the door. "Reid, let me in!"

Will started pounding, too. "Reid, man, open the door!"

"NO! LEAVE HIM! I CAN'T STOP IT!" There was a smash, followed by a heart-wrenching sob.

JJ froze in horror. "Spence!" she cried out, slamming both fists against the door. "Spence, please, are you alright? Where's Henry?" She heard another smash. "Spence!"

She was distracted as Will ran forward at the door, attempting to kick it in; unfortunately, Will LaMontagne was not Derek Morgan. He collapsed to the ground, clutching his foot. He took his phone out of his pocket.

"Calling the police," he gasped.

A third smash. "Spence, please!" JJ screamed, tears streaming down her face. "Where's Henry?"

There was a long silence; JJ just stood there, her mascara running all over her face, calling out Spencer's name. Finally, to her shock, she heard a _click _as the door was being unlocked.

The door swung open.

Spencer Reid stood in front of them. He reached out for JJ, his expression pained.

His hands were covered with blood.

_*I told you it'd get violent! More to come soon. Any and all reviews are very much appreciated, I could always use suggestions and feedback.*_


	2. Chapter 2

_*Attention everyone; I told you there might be character death, but now I'm warning you, possible death of a CHILD. If it's going to upset you, DON'T read it. Fan fiction is not meant to make you upset…haha*_

His hands were covered in blood.

"Henry!" Will shouted, trying to push past Reid. The taller man put his hand out, stopping Will in his tracks.

"Be careful!" Reid said. "You don't want to go in there. It's very unsafe."

"You-" Will's voice was cut off as he grappled with Reid, trying to shove his way into the apartment. Apparently, Reid was stronger than he appeared, and he succeeded in shoving Will back into the hallway.

"Reid, please– is Henry ok?" JJ pleaded, trying to keep her voice steady.

Before Reid could answer, Will attacked again. Reid let out a surprised gasp and stumbled backwards; then, almost as if the response was automatic, Reid reached into his pocket, pulled out a pen, and stabbed Will in the chest.

"Argh!" Will gasped and collapsed to the ground; JJ cried out and held crouched down next to him, trying to hold him up. "Call the police…" Will moaned.

Reid studied him for a few moments, then said, with a very serious expression, "You should be more careful." Without another word, he pushed past JJ and started down the hallway. He broke into a run halfway there, glancing over his shoulder several times.

"Will…"

"Get him! Get Henry!" He coughed, clutching his chest. "Give me your phone–I'll call the police–"

JJ dug in her purse and threw the phone at Will, before running into the apartment. "Henry!" she screamed, barely aware of the panicked tears running down her face. "Henry, where are you?"

She ran into the bedroom, tearing pillows off of the bed in a desperate search for her son. "Henry?" she called, hoping her son would hear her. She pushed her way into the bathroom, ripping the shower curtain out of the way, opening and closing the cupboards. When she came up empty, she ran back into the kitchen.

That was when she saw it.

Blood.

JJ froze in place, the words and numbers on the walls blurring around her. Her entire body was ice cold; she couldn't feel her legs as they moved her forward, propelling her towards the room in which her world would end.

JJ was aware of seeing it; the _it _being something so horrifying and disfigured that she refused to recognize it as her son. She tried to breathe; she couldn't. Everything tilted; strangeness, and horror, and, numbness, and, nothing, and…

Everything went black.

_*…too far? Sorry, I tried to think of a way to progress the story without killing Henry, but I couldn't. It'll all make sense in later chapters….I know you're horrified with me, but don't give up yet!*_


	3. Chapter 3

_*Thanks sticking with me! Again, I'm sorry I killed Henry, but it had to be done. There's a bit more gore in the beginning here describing his death, but I promise not to kill any more children for the rest of the story.*_

Detective Walker had seen a lot of bad cases in his thirty years working in law enforcement.

This was the worst.

The child; no, the _baby_'s head had been bashed into the counter; his tiny, fragile, body was beaten and broken, blood darkening his formerly light blue T-shirt. It looked like he had been stabbed more than forty times with a fork, post-mortem.

The strangest thing of all was that a stuffed tiger had been placed under the dead child's arm.

The detective just stared; he was the only one left in the room. His partner; ten years his junior; had run into the bathroom to throw up.

Detective Walker closed his eyes, also fighting back waves of nausea. He could still see the child's mother, lying collapsed on the floor in the pile of blood, her arm reaching out towards her dead son. He could still see the boy's father; fighting with the paramedics and begging for his family as he was loaded into an ambulance.

They couldn't move the child's body. This was a crime scene now.

It was pretty obvious who had committed the crime; the fingerprints were all over the fork, all over the tiger, all over the child's body. Will LaMontagne; the boy's father; had literally seen the blood on Spencer Reid's hands.

The problem was that nobody had any idea where he had gone. Spencer Reid had just murdered a four year old boy; what could possibly be next?

Apparently, Dr. Spencer Reid was an FBI agent of the Behavioral Analysis Unit.

Walker didn't understand how an agent of the bureau could have done this.

He didn't understand how an officer of the law could have done this.

He didn't understand how _anyone_ could have done this.

His musings were interrupted at a noise behind him; people were entering the apartment. It was a large, muscled, African American man, and a slightly shorter white man with sad eyes.

"Who are you?" Walker demanded. This was _his_ crime scene.

"Aaron Hotchner. FBI." He flashed his badge, barely glancing at Walker before he began to look around. Although the man was obviously trying to keep his expression neutral, he could see barely concealed pain radiating from the very depth of the man's eyes.

The African American man turned away, making a strange choking sound. "Morgan, if you can't handle this, you need to leave," the white man said shortly.

"I can…I can handle it," the man named Morgan gasped. Seconds later, however, he contradicted himself by turning and running back into the hall.

Walker clapped Aaron Hotchner on the back. "My partner's puking his guts out in the bathroom," he said. "What part of the Bureau are you from?"

"BAU," Aaron Hotchner answered. He took a deep breath, then stepped towards the body; the movements looked like they were physically painful for him.

It took Walker a moment to process this. "Wait," he began, "Isn't that the same…"

"Yes." Aaron Hotchner cut him off. He let out a loud breath, then stood up, looking around at the quotes and numbers on the walls.

"The bureau put _you _on _this _case?" Walker asked, gaping at the man.

Aaron Hotchner didn't answer immediately. "We know Reid better than anyone," he said eventually. "We'll be able to profile him and find out where he is." He paused. "The only explanation for this is that he's suffered a severe psychotic break. The real Reid…would never do this. Henry is his godson. He…he loves him." The man's ordinarily stoic voice faltered for a moment.

Walker regarded the man with increasing mistrust; it was very suspicious that he was talking about the boy in the present tense.

Hotchner apparently realized his mistake. "_Was_ his godson," he corrected hurriedly; being with the BAU, he probably knew how much stock profilers put in slip-ups like that.

"Right," Walker said disbelievingly. "Look, Agent Hotchner, I know you've probably got the best of intentions and everything. But you guys aren't exactly impartial to this case. It should really be handled by-"

"I know," Hotchner cut in, his voice suddenly severe. "That's why you'll be assisting us." He took a deep breath. "We need to find out what his delusion is, and why it's causing him to…" he trailed off, before choking the word out, "kill."

Walker glanced around at the writing and equations on the walls. "Why do I feel like these are the key to finding him?" he asked. Sighing, he took out a notebook and glanced at the wall directly behind Henry's body.

_Existence is really __an imperfect tense that never becomes a present.__ Let f(x) = {. 1 if x ≥ 0. −1 if x 0 ~Freidrich Neitzsche_

"Doesn't make any sense," Walker muttered, frustrated. "A fucking mental case."

"The limit does not exist," Hotchner muttered to himself.

"What?" Walker asked, annoyed. He was halfway through writing down the nonsense in his notebook.

"Reid explained it to me a couple of months ago," Hotchner muttered, his brain apparently kicking into gear. "That equation; in that equation, the limit doesn't exist. It…as it approaches zero, it…" he trailed off in confusion, narrowing his eyes. "Can we get a mathematician in here? We need to figure out what these equations mean." Hotchner waved his hands in the general direction of the writing on the walls.

"Do you think it'll help us find him?" Walker asked doubtfully, not completely in favor of decoding all of the psycho's arithmetic.

"I hope," Hotchner said, his eyes dark. He let out a sigh; as if he had just exerted an enormous amount of energy. He mumbled something about "checking on Morgan," and followed his colleague into the hallway.

Left alone with the body and the writing, Walker walked out of the kitchen, into the bedroom. He noticed a quote written above the bed, larger than the others; but faded, as if it had been written months ago.

_Forever I shall be a stranger to myself; in psychology, as in logic, there are truths but no truth._

_~Albert Camus._


	4. Chapter 4

_*Thanks to anyone who reviewed! I like feedback a lot, positive or negative. Also, thanks for continuing to read, despite the terrible atrocities I have committed against the LaMontagne family. I promise that the gory part is over (mostly.)*_

"This is high school math," the dark-haired lady said. She pursed her lips. "I learned it in Pre-Calculus in the tenth grade."

"So what?" Walker asked. He, Aaron Hotchner, and this new lady were all standing in the living room, examining the mathematical equations on the walls. The dark-haired lady had apparently come to replace the large African-American man he'd seen earlier; when he'd asked Agent Hotchner about the switch, he'd simply replied that she "compartmentalized" quite well.

"So," she said, "Reid knows math a hundred times more difficult than this."

"Maybe your friend isn't as smart as you think he is," Walker muttered. This earned him dirty looks from Aaron Hotchner as well as the dark-haired lady.

"What I _meant_ is that he chose these equations for a reason," she said. "Like he's trying to tell us something."

Walker couldn't help rolling his eyes. Thankfully, neither of the FBI agents saw this.

"What would he be trying to tell us?" Hotchner prompted.

"Well," the dark-haired lady said, "They all have one thing in common." She paused. "None of them exist. Like, this one, for example. You can't divide by zero; so this doesn't exist. The answer to _this _one can't be negative, but it is; so _it_ doesn't exist."

Agent Hotchner nodded. "You could be right."

Walker cleared his throat. "Or maybe he went crazy and forgot how to do math, and that's why none of the answers exist."

There was no mistaking the loathing in either of their expressions.

"Look," Walker began, voicing doubts he'd had since the beginning of the investigation. "I get that you two have your pre-conceived notions about this guy, because he was your colleague, or friend, or something, and that he _used_ to be really smart and he _used_ to be a wonderful person. But as far as I'm concerned, he's a psychotic that killed a four-year old boy. I don't think he's going to leave you some sort of special, coded message. We gave it a shot; we've been at it for hours; but we're coming up blank. These equations aren't getting us anywhere."

Agent Hotchner look a step forward; even though Walker was the taller of the two men, he still felt the need to lean back.

"These equations will provide us with a more accurate profile," he growled.

"I know," Walker said, annoyed. "I'm a profiler, too. But it's only a matter of time before this guy kills someone again. Isn't it a waste of-"

"There are police out looking for Reid," Aaron Hotchner snapped. "We're doing our job here. If _you _think that your efforts would be better spent somewhere else; be our guest." He then turned his back on Walker and began speaking with the lady in hushed tones.

Irritated, Walker turned and went back into the bedroom. He knew he had probably been out of line; they _were_ federal officers, after all; but he was getting frustrated. He once again examined Camus' quote above the bed; Hotchner had dismissed it, as it looked like it had been written a long time ago; but something about it captured Walker's interest.

Suddenly, he started forward; he pushed the bed away from the wall to reveal a dozen or so new quotations; each looking faded, like the first one.

_Nothing exists; even if something exists, nothing can be known about it; and even if something can be known about it, knowledge about it can't be communicated to others._

_Gorgias_

_In the consciousness of the truth he has perceived, man now sees everywhere only the awfulness or the absurdity of existence and loathing seizes him._

_Friedrich Nietzsche_

_There is no other world. Nor even this one. What, then, is there? The inner smile provoked in us by the patent nonexistence of both._

_E.M. Cioran_

Walker stared at the quotes, something dawning on him. He frowned, then slowly stood up and walked back into the living room, deep in thought.

"Agent Hotchner?" he inquired, after standing there for several moments.

Hotchner still look irritated when he turned around. "Yes?"

Walker blinked. "You say that none of the answers exist?"

Hotchner nodded, still eyeing him suspiciously.

Walker paused. "What if he's suffering from a nihilistic delusion?" Hotchner opened his mouth as if to rebut him immediately, but then closed it, frowning.

The dark haired lady turned around. "A what?" she asked.

"A nihilistic delusion," Agent Hotchner said, "Is the belief that nothing exists besides yourself."

"They convince themselves that nothing exists," Walker explained to her. "It can happen in schizophrenics; if they tell themselves enough times that the voices or hallucinations aren't real, they begin to wonder whether _any _of it exists…" he trailed off, as the dark-haired lady and Aaron Hotchner exchanged a significant look that he didn't understand. "They panic. They sometimes get violent. And the problem with a nihilistic delusion is that you can't _disprove_ it."

The dark-haired lady was shaking her head. "Reid wouldn't do all this just because he wasn't sure he existed or not," she said.

"You'd be surprised," Walker replied, "At the terror that arises from feeling alone in the universe."

There was a long silence.

"That would explain his obsession with Nietzsche," Hotchner remarked. "At least half of the quotes here are by him."

"And Sartre," said the dark-haired lady, "And Beckett. And Albert Camus."

Hotchner looked like he was about to say something, but then his phone rang. He answered it quickly, and his expression darkened; any relief that he'd begun to show disappeared immediately.

"What is it?" Walker asked, although he had a pretty good guess.

"They just found two more bodies."


	5. Chapter 5

_*Thanks for the reviews! This chapter is Reid's point of view. It might get a bit confusing at times, but that's because he's….you know…schizophrenic.*_

They wouldn't stop looking at him.

Blink.

Glare.

Blink.

He turned around and started walking in the opposite direction.

Reid had been walking for some time now. He wasn't sure how long it had been. Ever since they had stopped talking to him.

They were always staring.

Blink.

He could feel their eyes.

"Not real," Reid muttered to himself, "Not real, not real."

They hadn't admitted they weren't real until they had disappeared.

Reid wished he could see his mother.

"Not real," he reminded himself. He swallowed.

He wished he could see his teammates.

"Not real," he growled, then stopped in his walking. He turned around, and saw that they were still staring.

It was no use talking to them.

They didn't exist.

He was talking to himself.

He always had been.

"Hey! Are you alright?"

Something was talking to him.

Reid whipped around; it wasn't _them. _It was some other _it. _A figment of his imagination.

He kept walking.

"Hey, kid! Do you need a ride somewhere?" It was right behind him now; Reid felt obliged to turn around. He could see the plastered smile, the leering eyes, the wrinkled skin…

Reid turned away. He couldn't look anymore.

"You have blood all over you," it said. "Do you need a hospital?"

Hospital.

"Not real! Not real!" Reid shouted, backing away from it. _It can't hurt you,_ he reminded himself, _it's just a trick they're playing. They're trying to upset you; they're trying to distract you; they don't want you to solve the equation._

The man backed away, holding up his hands. "Alright, kid," he said. He took another step back. "Just trying to help."

Reid began walking again.

He wished he didn't know. Knowing was terrible.

He wanted to scream.

He knew nobody would hear.

Except maybe them.

But they would just laugh.

They had been laughing the whole time.

He turned a corner. He was away from it. He was alone.

He was always alone.

Reid had a knife.

He'd taken it from the kitchen.

He wondered whether or not the knife existed.

He decided that it didn't. He pressed it against his arm.

It felt cold.

_That doesn't mean anything,_ he told himself. Suddenly, he lifted his hand and plunged the knife deep into his arm.

He was slightly bemused by the jolt of pain that followed, by the scream that escaped from his lips.

_When a person screams in pain, the actual pain is only half the noise they make. The other half is the terror at being forced to admit they exist._

_Noah Cicero_

It was one of the quotes he had written on his wall.

It was supposed to help solve the equation.

Numbers, books, people, nothing. None of it helped.

The equation was supposed to help.

He couldn't solve it.

Real, fake, nothing, imagined, blank, nothing, freedom, terror, nothing….

Stab.

Scream.

Pain.

A pair of the distractions appeared; one male, one female. The male one saw him. It said something.

It needed to go away.

Stab.

Scream.

It fell.

The other one was crying.

Laughter.

They were watching. They were laughing.

Stab.

Stab.

Stab.

He was crying.

They were still laughing.

He ran.


	6. Chapter 6

_*Thanks to anyone who reviewed. Oh, and I still don't own criminal minds. I think I forgot to mention that at the beginning.*_

"I'll check around back."

Morgan turned away from the bodies. He didn't want to see it anymore.

Rossi followed him; what with Reid and JJ gone, and Prentiss and Hotch at the apartment, they were the only two agents who had been able to make it to the crime scene.

"Morgan," Rossi said; Morgan didn't turn. He ignored the older agent, examining the streets for traces of blood.

"Morgan," Rossi repeated, more sharply this time. Morgan turned around.

"Did you find something?" he asked, his voice sounding duller than he intended.

"You can't think of this as Reid," Rossi began.

Morgan sighed. "Nothing here," he murmured, "Let's go back."

"You have to think of him like he's any other unsub," Rossi said sharply."That's the only way we can get him back safely. You're letting your emotions get in the way. It's affecting your profiling."

"It isn't," Morgan retorted angrily, walking back towards the crime scene. "I'm upset, okay? That doesn't mean I can't do my job."

"Well," Rossi began, "Would an intelligent profiler have stopped looking after less than a minute?"

Morgan gritted his teeth, frustrated; but he knew Rossi was right. Sighing, he turned around. "No traces of blood," he said, examining the ground for drops as he walked along. "You got anything?"

"Not yet," Rossi murmured, now walking along the wall. He turned a corner; Rossi went left, Morgan went right.

"You got anything?"

"Trash can is knocked over," Rossi noted. "He could've run into it. I don't-" There was a pause.

"Rossi?"

"It's a weird thing here. There are scrape marks. Like someone was stabbing the wall with a knife."

Morgan frowned, and started over towards Rossi. "Sounds like R…like the unsub," he muttered, then swallowed.

"Right," Rossi replied. "A nihilistic delusion involves a dissociation from reality. He could have been stabbing the wall to prove to himself that it wasn't there."

They continued down Rossi's alley, examining the walls closely for any other scrape marks. The alley meandered along for some time, and they were about to head back when suddenly Rossi saw it.

"Morgan," he hissed, and gestured towards an object that was barely hidden behind a dumpster.

It was a knife. And it was covered in blood.

Morgan bent over it. "Get the crime scene people over here," he muttered. "This is the murder weapon." He then flinched, because he remembered who was the murderer.

"Right, I will," Rossi said. "You keep going."

Morgan continued down the alley; it seemed to go on forever, right into the very heart of the city. He breathed deeply, focusing on pushing any emotion to the very bottom; he could deal with that later. He let the logical part of his brain take over, carefully examining each brick in the wall, each piece of litter on the ground; looking for anything out of place.

His microphone crackled in his ear. "Hotch and Emily are here," Rossi's voice said to him, "So is detective Walker. I'm sending him to help you."

Walker was probably that skinny guy that had been in Reid's apartment earlier.

Morgan's cheeks burned red with embarrassment when he thought of the incident earlier; he'd had to leave , and they'd had to send _Emily _ instead.

Walker must think he was a really competent FBI agent.

These thoughts were immediately banished when he saw a limp form lying at the end of the alley. Morgan ran towards it, his heart racing.

It was a dog.

Its throat had been slashed.

Morgan's stomach twisted uncomfortably, as he laid his eyes on a small, dingy looking café that was situated across the street. Morgan frowned, and started towards the tiny restaurant. He heard a noise behind him, and whipped around.

"Agent Morgan! I …oh," Detective Walker stopping in his tracks and stared at the dog, openmouthed.

"He's been this way," Morgan said shortly. Wordlessly, Walker followed him towards the restaurant.

It was completely empty save a female hostess and an apparently drunk man lying passed out at one of the tables.

The hostess looked very excited to see them.

"Hi! How may I help you?" she asked eagerly, her wide smile revealing that she was missing a tooth.

"Derek Morgan, FBI," Morgan said, flashing his badge at the lady, who looked extremely taken aback. "Did anyone looking like this man walk by here in the past hour or so?" He flashed her a picture of Reid, but didn't look at it. He couldn't bear to see Reid's smile right now.

She paused. Her eyes widened.

"He was in here," she said slowly, her eyes glancing back and forth between Walker and Morgan, as if she was worried that she was in trouble.

"How long ago?" Morgan demanded, as Walker took out a small notebook.

"Oh, say…thirty minutes ago? Forty? Before him," she said, waving her hand at the drunk man. "Ed!" she shouted at the man, "How long have you been here?"

"Since November," the man grumbled into his arms.

"Ah, well, anyways…" she muttered, trailing off.

"What did he do?" Morgan demanded.

"He…he came in here asking for coffee," she said. "He looked awfully…dirty. Bloody, I mean," she said, clarifying. "Anyways, I told him to leave or I'd call the police. So he goes and grabs a bunch of the napkins and silverware off one of the tables and takes off into the street."

"And you didn't find this odd? You didn't find this suspicious?" Walker demanded angrily.

"We get a lot of…_interesting_ people in here," she said, gesturing towards Ed, who was now snoring loudly. She paused. "I'm not in any sort of trouble, am I?"

"Of course not, ma'am," Morgan said quickly. "Thank you for your help. Just one more thing; which direction did he run?"

"Uh…that way," she said decisively, pointing to their left. "Away from town."

"If you see anything else, call us," Morgan said, handing her his card. He and Walker quickly exited the café.

"You couldn't pay me to eat there," Walker said, once they were out of earshot. He frowned. "So why would he steal silverware and napkins?" he asked.

Morgan stared at the ground for a moment before he answered. "I don't know," he said. "But now he's got another knife."

And that was when they heard the screaming.


	7. Chapter 7

It was cold.

Reid shivered, keeping his eyes closed. He hadn't opened them in awhile.

Darkness might be real, but nothing else was.

The equation didn't work.

Nothing.

It had all been a lie. Nobody, nowhere, nothing.

What, then?

_They_ were real.

He needed to punish them.

This wasn't funny.

He needed to escape.

How?

By punishing them.

How?

By escaping.

His hands stayed over his eyes; nothing made sense. He pressed the cold knife against his cheek; it was nice, at least, to pretend it was there.

He remembered.

The stab. The scream. The pain.

He smiled.

They must have been angry.

He wasn't behaving how he was supposed to.

They had to be punished. It wasn't funny.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Reid opened his eyes; he was surprised and infuriated to see that everything was exactly how he'd left it.

They wouldn't make it go away. They were still playing with him.

They were still laughing.

He blinked, frowned, and then slowly got to his feet. He lashed out suddenly, kicking at a trash bin.

It fell, just like it was supposed to.

That was so annoying.

He started walking.

There was no one around. He wondered if they had gotten rid of all the other illusions. Maybe they didn't like him killing them.

Reid realized he was wrong when he saw a female one pass by; he grimaced, annoyed.

He walked towards it.

They needed to pay.

He followed it.

It didn't turn.

He was right behind it now.

They needed to stop laughing.

It wasn't funny.

He grabbed it and pulled it towards him, pressing the knife to its throat.

"Scream," he hissed in its ear.

It struggled first, trying to get away. He held it easily; it was rather small.

"Please," it gasped, "I'll give you whatever you want."

"Scream, then," he demanded. "They need to…to hear you. I need to get their attention." Then he frowned; would they hear it? After all, it didn't exist.

But they had created the illusion. They would hear it.

It was the only way.

"Scream!" Reid whispered violently, "Scream, or I'll do it again!" He tightened his hold on the knife.

And so it screamed.

_*Sorry this chapter's so short, the next one will probably be a lot longer as it will be the last. Thanks to everyone for reading!*_


	8. Chapter 8

Morgan had never run so fast in his life.

He could feel the adrenaline, the heat, his heart pumping wildly as his legs began to move so fast he could barely feel them anymore…

There was another scream; he ran faster.

He was vaguely aware of Detective Walker falling behind him, but he wasn't going to wait for the older detective. He had to find Reid; he had to stop him.

There was a third scream; much longer and drawn out this time. It was louder, too; he was getting closer. Morgan turned a corner and ran down an alley.

Scream; Morgan followed it, gasping for air; he turned.

He saw them.

Morgan barely recognized Reid; he had blood-shaped handprints all over his face, and his matted hair hung down into his eyes. His clothes were torn and disheveled; his eyes were huge, wild, terrified; like those of a caged animal. He was clutching a sixteen or seventeen year old girl, holding a knife to her throat; she had her eyes closed and continued screaming. Reid gripped her tightly, but Morgan could see his hand was shaking.

Morgan stopped running; he advanced slowly, his hands up, never drawing his gun.

"Reid," Morgan called softly, hoping that the boy would recognize his voice.

Reid's eyes darted all around, before finally resting on him. "Are they coming?" he demanded.

Morgan swallowed. "I'm here," he said. "Nobody needs to get hurt."

"You aren't!" he exclaimed, his voice quavering, "Stop lying!"

"Nobody's lying to you, Reid," Morgan said, trying to keep his voice calm. He could hear Walker finally catching up to him, and motioned for him to stay back.

"Tell them that it isn't funny," Reid growled, his grip on the knife tightening. The girl let out a terrified sob.

"Reid, it's Morgan, I'm here," he said, slowly inching closer to the pair of them. "Whatever this is, we can work it out. But first, you have to let the girl go."

"They need to be punished," he choked. "They have to see that it isn't funny."

Morgan was standing right in front of them now. "I know," he said, "You're right. It isn't funny."

"I need to talk to them," Reid asserted. "If I can't talk to them, I'll kill it." He paused, then smiled. "I know they don't like that. It's not how I'm supposed to behave."

The girl sobbed again, looking up at Morgan with wide, desperate eyes.

"Let her go, Reid," Morgan said quietly.

"I NEED TO TALK TO THEM!" Reid shrieked, his voice so distorted by fury that it was almost inhuman.

Morgan swallowed. "Who are 'they?'" he asked patronizingly.

This seemed to make Reid even angrier. "You _know_ who they _are!"_ He hissed, each word twisted with hate and desperation. His eyes flickered around madly. "Show yourselves, you cowards, you…" his voice constricted and broke off.

"You…you're right, Reid," Morgan began, trying desperately to end this peacefully. "I do know who they are. But that girl doesn't. If you come with me, I can show them to you."

Reid eyed him suspiciously. Then he laughed; it was a cold, humorless laugh that Morgan had never heard from him in his life. "You're just an illusion," he spat. "You're not _them. _You're an _it._ Tell _them_ I won't talk to an _it."_

Morgan was so confused.

"I'll kill it," Reid hissed, "I'll kill it, I will, unless they talk to me. They have to…make it go away." He whispered the last part, and his eyes fell to the ground. They stood in silence for a moment; the only sound was the girl's choked sobbing.

Morgan's microphone crackled to life; he heard Walker's voice in his ear. "I have a shot, Agent Morgan."

"_Don't_ take it," Morgan hissed back. He didn't care if he was being unprofessional; he _knew_ he could talk Reid out of this. The kid just needed to _listen._

"It's not _her_ that's been lying to you," Morgan began suddenly. "Killing her won't stop them."

Reid shook his head desperately. "It's the only way," he said. "They don't like it when I kill the distractions."

"That's right," Morgan said quickly, "They _don't _like it. And they'll be _much _less likely to talk to you if you make them angry."

Reid bit his lip; for the first time, it seemed like he was thinking about what Morgan was saying. "It'll go on forever," he murmured.

"That's right," Morgan said.

"I just want them to stop it," Reid whispered, "I just…I just want them to see that it isn't funny, and I want them to stop it."

"Of course you do," Morgan said soothingly.

Reid hesitated; Morgan held his breath for a moment that seemed like forever.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Reid lowered the knife. "I won't kill it," he whispered.

Morgan let out a long sigh of relief. "Put the knife on the ground, Reid," he instructed.

But Reid didn't seem to be listening to him. He was looking around. "Where are they?" he asked. "It's still here."

"Put the knife down, Reid."

He raised his voice. "It's still here!"

"Reid, put the knife down."

"It's still here! You're lying! It's still here!" He dropped his hands to his sides, his face contorting with rage. Morgan dove forward, pulling the girl away from Reid and practically flinging her into the wall.

Reid froze for a fraction of a second, the knife dangling from his hand. He turned his gaze at Morgan.

Then he lunged.

Morgan put his hands out, trying to wrestle the knife from Reid; but terror made the boy stronger, and Morgan felt the knife barely graze his shoulder; Morgan struggled back; Reid was strong, but Morgan was stronger; he could restrain him, he could handle him, everything was going to be alright…

That was when he heard a shot.

Morgan froze in shock as the young man stopped fighting and fell into his arms, limp. Morgan collapsed to the ground, desperately trying to hold his friend's head up.

Blood was running from Reid's mouth; his eyes were dazed, but focused slightly on Morgan's face.

"I'm here, Reid," Morgan gasped, "I'm here, and you're fine, you're going to be fine."

"You're here?" Reid whispered. It sounded like a question.

"I'm here," Morgan repeated, "I'm here, and you're here, too, and we're going to go to the hospital, and you're going to be-"

"Shh," Reid interrupted, his voice barely audible. His lips moved for several moments before he could finally form words. "They're coming," he choked.

His eyes closed. His head fell back.

"Reid?" Morgan whispered. There was no response. He could hear ambulances in the distance; or was it police sirens? Did it make a difference?

He sat there for what seemed like an eternity, calling his friend's name. He could feel a pair of arms trying to lift him away from Reid; he struggled, refusing to let go.

Walker's voice sounded like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel. "I had to do it, Agent Morgan."

Morgan shook his head, still not relinquishing his grip on his friend.

"I'm sorry, Agent Morgan, he could have killed you." He tuned out Walker's voice, closing his eyes, clutching the frail body to his chest. He had let Reid down. He could feel bitter, angry tears running down his face against his will.

"Morgan." This was a different voice now; a familiar one. "Morgan, you have to let go of him."

Hotch.

"He just wanted it to go away," Morgan mumbled.

"I know," Hotch said solemnly. There was a pause; Morgan could feel the presence of others, now. They were watching him.

"Morgan," Hotch said, "You have to let him go." There was another pause. "Nothing can hurt him anymore," Hotch said. His voice was softer, but still firm.

Morgan forced his arms to release their hold; he could hear people murmuring around him, but it was all strange and disconnected. He stumbled backwards, and he could feel his boss supporting him.

"He needs an ambulance," Morgan muttered, "I should go with him."

Hotch was silent; he forced Morgan to turn away. "No," Hotch whispered. "We're going to take a walk. Alright?"

They walked for some time. There was silence; the silence was deafening, because each stroke of silence was a reminder of its cause.

"I have to go," Morgan said, "I just…"

"Morgan?" Hotch inquired, frowning. "It's alright."

Morgan shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "It isn't. I need to…be alone."

Hotch stopped walking, understanding. Morgan continued. He wasn't even sure where he was going until he arrived.

Reid's apartment.

He pushed the door open; someone had left it unlocked.

Probably Hotch.

It was empty. Nobody was concerned with Reid, anymore.

He walked into the living room, glancing at the books lying in piles on the floor. He wondered what would happen to them.

Suddenly, Morgan was overwhelmed by a feeling of nausea; he ran into the bathroom and keeled over the Reid's sink, taking deep, calming breaths. He felt panic trapped deep inside him, threatening to escape; but the most frightening feeling of all was the shock; the disbelief; the numbness.

He looked up at the mirror; he needed to see himself, as if somehow the expression of pain on his face would make the numbness go away. But he couldn't see his reflection; it was obscured by the words that had been etched into the mirror's surface.

_Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance._

_Jean Paul Sartre_

_*The end! I hope you liked it. Or if you were extremely disturbed by it, I hope you found it interesting. Anyways, review please! As always, positive and negative reviews are both very much appreciated.*_


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